“Now you have. At the end of next week, you and Omega Mother Jane will travel to our sister school, Rejoice Omega Collegiate, to accept your prize and read your submission aloud.”
“Read aloud? Like public speaking, or just a private reading?” My stomach drops at the mere thought of speaking in front of a room full of people. Anyone, actually.
“You will be reading your submission word for word to an entire auditorium of girls, teachers, and assistants. It’s such a wonderful opportunity, don’t you think?”
I have to take a few slow and steady breaths to calm the sudden need to vomit. “I don’t think I can.” The words pop out as soon as they appear in my thoughts. Admittedly those words beat like drums over and over, so they’re the only thing I can focus on.
She makes a noise of disbelief, and I watch her carefully, trying to get a better read on the situation. The disappointment I was expecting doesn’t appear. If anything, she looks at me understandingly, which makes me nervous.
Pushing a glass of water over her desk to me, she waits until I’ve taken a sip. “Simona, there’s not many people who do enjoy public speaking, but what you wrote needs to be shared.” Reclining back in her chair, she smiles conspiratorially. “Actually, now I think of it, Rejoice has a wonderful program that I think you will benefit from. How about I speak with Omega Mother Helena, their principal, and ask if we can postpone your speech to after the break. Maybe you’ll share your experience about the program I’m going to suggest you do, with the girls as part of your public speaking.”
I’m pretty sure I walked into something already in motion. Before I can ask what she means, Omega Mother Beatrice continues.
“Rejoice seems to attract the more artistically minded Omegas. One of the programs they offer is a small coaching arrangement with Alphas who volunteer their time—all with experience in public speaking. The program only runs during the holidays, not during the semester. They have a wonderful panel of experts: one is an industrial and technical specialist who speaks at trade shows, another is a University Lecturer, and the third has done voice work.
“It’s a five-day workshop led by those three Alphas, and it’s supposed to be quite enjoyable. You’ll gain endless tools to help overcome your hesitation with public speaking and discover your voice. And now you’re going to take part in it, right?”
Before I answer, a little voice inside my head pipes up reminding me to seize the day, but the deciding factor is when I figure out the program means I won’t have to return home. “I’d love to.”
My family are all attending an outdoor adventure retreat celebrating Lawson’s recovery. I was asked, but it felt wrong to accept. Instead, I was going to stay at the house by myself which would have been horrible.
“Good. I’ll confirm the details with everyone involved, including your family. We have a few more students partaking in a variety of other courses at Rejoice at the same time, so I’ll book you a seat on the bus. It leaves Unity the afternoon after our Unity break up afternoon tea.” She all but dismisses me with a wave before picking up the phone. As I close the door to her office, I hear her saying hello to Omega Mother Helena.
And then her news hits. I’m absolutely thrilled about getting third place. By the time I’ve finished getting ready, I’m trembling with excitement. Although, my win isn’t the reason.
The Uber I called pulls up in front of Noire, and before Ican second guess my motivation—or whether I should even be here—the doorman I met previously opens my door.
“Evening.” There’s a spark of recognition that grows as I get out of the car, except he doesn’t push any kind of interaction. He treats me like a guest.
Handing him my membership card, I’ve never felt surer about anything.
He scans my details, opens the door, and welcomes me inside. The atmosphere feels different tonight, though that’s mostly because I know Brody isn’t here. Still, I remember how familiar the place felt the first time I walked through these doors—strange, considering I had no idea it was a sex club.
As I approach the reception desk, the attendant gives me a rundown of the rules. I only half-listen—I’ve already read them. Most of my focus is spent trying to keep myself still, resisting the urge to snatch the whole box of wristbands and bolt through the door.
“What colour did you want to wear this evening?”
“White.”
From what I’ve recently learned, the colour-coded system they use isn’t unique to this club. Different colours signal an individual’s interest, preferences, and level of willingness. White is universal for those with vanilla tastes, newcomers curious to explore but not looking to rush in. It also means anyone interested in approaching you has to ask for permission each time, since people’s desires can shift as easily as the wind.
I won’t change mine.
I’m here with a plan that involves Hendrix, but like the colour around my wrist, it will depend on what he wants out of any interaction we share.
Opting for mineral water instead of the free-flowing champagne, I find a seat on the edge of the room and focuson the stage rather than the milling crowd. I’m not here to mingle. Despite my nerves and the heavy cloud of scent surrounding me, only a few people approach. I make it clear I’m not interested in conversation, but they linger anyway—resting their glass on my table or leaning casually against its edge.
The music filtering through the room is as sultry as the dancers on stage. The set and costumes are just as captivating as the performers themselves—though calling their outfitscostumesfeels generous, given how little fabric is involved.
My focus though is solely on Hendrix as he commandeers the attention of the crowd.
The people around him are subtle in their attempts to catch his attention, which is ironic considering we’re in a sex club where anything goes. They pretend to be interested in what’s happening on stage, but their glances keep flicking towards him. It’s understandable—Hendrix has the kind of aura that draws people in without trying.
I notice the exact instant he realizes I’m here. It only takes a handful of minutes. His posture shifts—shoulders pulling back, head tilting slightly, as if he’s heard something. But in our case, it’s not sound. It’s scent. It’sme.
I almost feel sorry for the people he’s talking to.Almost.Because the second his focus locks on me, it’s as if they no longer exist—and that has to sting. But I know how he feels. That undeniable tug, the force that pulls him my way, is as unstoppable as a landslide. Neither of us has the power to stop the collision that’s bound to happen.
The rest of the room fades into the background until he’s the only thing I see. His eyes shimmer like dark emeralds, the stage lights helping make them sparkle, but it’s the eagerness in them that shines the brightest. He’s more casual tonight—black dress pants and an open-necked black button-down—but he still outshines everyone in the room. Next to him, theymight as well have dressed straight from the Walmart clearance rack.
